


i was born sick, but I love it (command me to be well)

by beetle



Series: Twenty Kisses [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amatus, Angst, Declarations Of Love, Dirty Talk, Dominant Adaar, Edging, Grief/Mourning, Idiots in Love, Kadan, Katoh - Freeform, Light Dom/sub, Light Sadism, M/M, Masochism, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Power Bottom Dorian Pavus, Rimming, Smut, Tevinter Imperium, submissive dorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-24 18:45:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10747620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: Less than four months into his whatever-it-is-they-have, with university librarian Rupert “Red” Adaar, Professor Dorian Pavus receives news from home. A follow-up to:Never Did Run Smooth.Written for prompt number two fromthis list of twenty kiss prompts: moving around while kissing, stumbling over things, pushing each other back against the wall/onto the bed





	i was born sick, but I love it (command me to be well)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stitchcasual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchcasual/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: Modern AU, a follow-up to [Never Did Run Smooth](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10713900),” but can be read as a standalone. Nothing but light angst and heavy porn. Note the tags for kink.

The news, coming as it had by letter from Minrathous—on his father’s official stationery, written in his father’s no-nonsense, blocky print, rather than the pristine, refined cursive of his secretary, Veraselle—threw Professor Dorian A. Pavus for a loop.

 

He’d just entered his tiny, ridiculous office at Kirkwall’s Genitivi Faculty Tower—an office he _shared_ with a dour, austere, borderline-asocial prodigy who was nonetheless on the tenure track, much like Dorian was, despite also being relatively young—breezing past Solas’s desk, toward his own, which faced the stuffy room’s only window. The view was only middling—the small patch of green between the GFT and the Hawke Humanities Building—but better than seeing Solas’s intense, yet somehow expressionless face.

 

Dumping his satchel and mail on his messy desk, half-on his keyboard, which caused his computer to wake up, Dorian dropped into his swiveling chair with a pained wince and a happy sigh. The chair was one of a few deal-breaker demands the University of Kirkwall had caved on in their eagerness to have _the_ Dr. Dorian Pavus lecture at their quaint institution.

 

“Good morning, Dorian,” Solas said serenely. He made a point of doing so _every_ morning, whether Dorian was in a mood to acknowledge him or not. But it just so happened that that morning, Dorian was in high spirits, indeed. He’d spent the previous night—as he had spent so many—at Rupert’s tiny, Spartan flat, being tied up and held down, and made to love every second of it. Though, as he was every morning after an assignation with his quietly, but thoroughly dominant, imaginative and tireless lover, Dorian was aching and exhausted, it was only in the very _best_ of ways. He could barely focus on walking properly—rather than like a man who’d spent most of a night being repeatedly, delightfully bent over anything that would hold a good several hundred pounds—down the halls of academe he called home, let alone focus on the professional, but very courteous disdain for Solas he’d worked so hard to cultivate.

 

“And a cheerful good morning to you, too, Professor Veil!” Dorian all but chirped, swiveling to face the shaven-headed man. He grinned when he met unreadable, pale-blue eyes in a long, sharp ascetic’s face. One slanted brow quirked up in question and Dorian snorted. “What? I can’t wish my office-mate a good morning?”

 

“I was beginning to think there was a physical law stating that very thing, yes,” Solas said dryly, and Dorian merely chuckled, leaning back in his chair, flicking the small lever just under the right side of the seat that made the back recline a little. With another sigh, even happier than the last, he folded his hands over his abdomen and eyed his colleague with mild amusement.

 

“Has anyone ever told you you’re very clever, Solas? No, I don’t suppose they have,” Dorian answered his own question blithely, leaning back a bit more to gaze up at the tiled ceiling. There were at least a dozen sharpened pencils stuck in the tiles above his own desk: the results of a bored genius having too much free time and too many writing implements. “What with you having the personality and charisma of a boiled cabbage.”

 

“As opposed to a deplorable excess of the former and a vast over-estimation of the latter, as some do?” Solas chuckled. “Besides, cabbage is a noble, hearty plant. I could be compared to worse.”

 

“You _would_ think that,” Dorian scoffed and laughed, swiveling to face his desk and the window again. He began sorting absently through his mail with the ease of long practice, dropping most of it in the waste bin next to his desk. But the second to last piece of correspondence caught his eyes. The quality of the envelope—a familiar sort of linen-blend paper—stood out, as did the foreign nature of the old-fashioned, rubber-stamped ink that denoted postage.

 

Not to mention seeing his father’s name scrawled in the upper left corner.

 

Gone cold, hands shaking, Dorian picked up the letter with fingers that were numb. The tips encountered a wax seal on the back of said letter—leave it to Hal Pavus to be a pompous, traditionalist _ass_ , even when writing internationally and to a family member . . . no matter how estranged—which he slid his index finger past and behind.

 

The letter was neatly opened before Dorian could think better—perhaps toss it in the bin with the rest of the rubbish he had no interest in or desire to read—and he was unfolding the creamy, off-white, almost parchment-like missive to see his father’s familiar, but unpracticed hand. Sneering—Dorian, like his mother, had impeccable cursive, worthy of framing—he skipped the first paragraph, which was nothing but salutations and recitations of titles, and skimmed the rest of the letter, expecting more apologies and implorations to come home and take his place in the Magisterium . . . to give up the _teaching-silliness_ that was so beneath one of the oldest families in the Republic, and the Old Imperium that’d existed for thousands of years before that.

 

Instead, his eyes were snagged on the words _tragedy_ and _sorrowed, Livia_ and _Felix, collision_ and _leukemia, dead_ and _dying_. . . .

 

And, near the bottom of the brief missive: _come home_ and _last wish_.

 

The letter fell from Dorian’s still-numb fingers, fluttering to the floor to his left, but not before he’d reread it several times, each time more disbelieving and incredulous than the last.

 

“. . . the second time this week you’ve come in wearing the same clothes you wore the day before. Don’t think people haven’t noticed,” Solas was remonstrating from closer than his own desk. Their shared printer whirred and came to life, slowly spitting out shitty reproductions of whatever weird historical philosophy the other man enjoyed torturing his students with. Bloody thing couldn’t collate worth a damn, either. “Now, what you do in your personal life is none of _my_ concern, but I feel I should let you know that the gossip going around about you and Dr. Blackwall’s new assistant is scandalous, indeed. You really oughtn’t to have trysts in the library and empty classrooms. Eventually, it won’t just be _faculty and staff_ talking, you know? You’ll have students whispering, too.”

 

 _Come home . . . last wish_. . . . Dorian thought, staring blankly out the window at the pathetic patch of green. He made a soft, sighing groan that caught Solas’s attention.

 

“Dorian?” the other professor asked, sounding almost concerned. A minute later, Dorian started as a hand fell on his shoulder, heavy, but gentle, and the fallen letter was placed before him on his desk. “Is everything . . . are _you_ alright?”

 

“I . . . _no_ ,” Dorian huffed out, as if he’d been gut-punched. Then he laughed, brief and slightly hysterical, swiping absently at his eyes. When they were as dry as they were going to get, he looked up at Solas and was surprised to see that the man was, uncharacteristically, concerned about something other than a point of philosophical or historical importance. He was concerned about _Dorian_. “No, I don’t think I am. And I certainly must _look it_ , if _you’re_ asking after my welfare!”

 

Solas frowned, glancing at the letter, which was in somewhat archaic Tevene—though Dorian wouldn’t be surprised to learn that _Solas_ was able to read it, even when so few outside the Republic, except for doctors and scientists, bothered with Tevene, anymore—then looked back at Dorian. “News from home?” he asked tactfully. Dorian barked that unhinged laugh again and nodded.

 

“You could say that.”

 

“Do you . . . wish to talk about it?” the other man asked with awkward solicitousness. Dorian smiled mirthlessly and shook his head.

 

“Not really. What’s to talk about? I mean, I merely found out from the father who tried to have me committed for conversion therapy, then disinherited me when I showed no inclination or intention of following the path he’d laid out for me, that my _surrogate_ _mother_ died in a car accident seven months ago. And my surrogate _brother_ nearly died in the _same_ _accident_ , and then—whilst the hospital was doing bloodwork on him after the accident—they discovered he had late-stage leukemia! And my surrogate _father_ went mad and took part in a thankfully bloodless attempt at a _coup d’etat_ against our beloved Republic! That’s all! Nothing worth hashing out!” Dorian hadn’t realized that he was practically shouting by that point, until he stopped talking and started laughing again, long and loud. Till his face hurt and tears blurred his vision of the verdant trapezoid between the GFT and HHB, and the few summer students intermittently crossing it.

 

The heavy hand on his shoulder lightened for a few moments, then squeezed firmly. “Dorian,” Solas murmured, shifting so he could lean against Dorian’s desk. He opened his mouth to say more, then closed it, watching Dorian laugh like a hyena, uncontrolled and unpleasant-sounding—more like screeching sobs than true laughter.

 

Seconds that felt like eternities later, Dorian suddenly stopped, his face red more from the helpless, mirthless laughter than embarrassment, and wiped his wet cheeks again with tremoring, impatient fingers.

 

“Fuck,” he muttered in a hoarse, cracking voice as tears continued to fall despite his best efforts to school his face into its usual amused disdain. A glance at Solas showed the rangy-lean man appeared more worried than ever, brows drawn together and wide, thin-lipped mouth turned down.

 

“Dorian,” he said again, soft and low, “would you like me to call over to the library for you?”

 

Snorting, Dorian glowered at the professor of philosophy. “And why should I want you to do _that_?” he demanded haughtily. Solas sighed and merely gazed at Dorian with imperturbable patience, till the slightly younger man flushed and looked away. “If, for any reason, I needed to ring the library, I should be perfectly capable of doing so, myself, thank you.”

 

“Perhaps,” Solas said, his voice gone noncommittal. He turned slightly and reached out to open the window. The summer breeze that flitted in was warm, and redolent of life and green.

 

Dorian shuddered, something Solas didn’t miss. Reluctantly, the other professor closed the window halfway. Then, he merely leaned there, while Dorian stared into space, numb and cold and thinking nothing at all.

 

Finally, some immeasurable time later, Solas stood and, with a stoic, final pat of Dorian’s shoulder, went back to his own desk. Dorian continued to stare out the window, tears running down his face unheeded, now, his icy fingers gripping the arms of his fancy leather chair so tight, whether it was the leather padding creaking or Dorian’s hands was up for debate.

 

Dorian did not notice. Nor did he notice when Solas reluctantly left their office not long after, though Solas’s return—after the light of the sun had shifted decidedly west, bringing shadows that lingered cool and dark on the patch of green—caught his attention. But only because that heavy hand descended on his shoulder again.

 

“You haven’t moved since I left three hours ago,” Solas noted, and Dorian . . . did not respond. All he could see, hear, and feel were the words: _Come home_ and _last wish_.

 

Solas sighed, his hand slowly falling away. “Dorian—”

 

“I need to go home,” Dorian said, soft and faint.

 

“Yes, of course,” Solas agreed instantly. “Let me gather my things and I’ll walk you back to your flat, if you like.”

 

Dorian exhaled, a sad, weary chuckle on the back of it. It didn’t even occur to him to question Solas for somehow knowing where he lived. “No,” he said just as wearily, but otherwise without inflection. “I need to go _home_.”

 

Silence from Solas. For the better part of two minutes. Then: “I’ll call Red.”

 

Dorian nodded, and closed his eyes on tears that stung and burned.

 

#

 

The next time a heavy hand landed on his shoulder, it was markedly heavier than _Solas’s_. Larger, too.

 

“Red?” Dorian croaked, finally looking away from the green patch, half of which was splashed with late-afternoon sunlight, the other half of which was cloaked in smudgy, golden-brown shadow. Craning his neck up and up—and _UP_ —he found himself looking into a concerned, craggy face—all harsh angles and prominent bone-structure—surrounded by frizzy, bright-auburn hair (which was for once unbraided and falling, Dorian knew, to halfway down that strong, plaid-covered back). In the center of that severe, _divinely_ brute-iful face, a pair of stormcloud-colored eyes regarded Dorian with worry and affection.

 

“ _Kadan_ ,” Rupert “Red” Adaar murmured tenderly, his hand leaving Dorian’s shoulder, to cup Dorian’s face in his enormous palm. His thumb, rough-gentle, stroked Dorian’s cheek so, _so_ lightly. Dorian’s eyes filled with tears that he tried to blink away, but instead, they rolled down his face. Red brushed them away with his callused thumb and turned Dorian’s chair with his free hand, so he could drop to one denim-clad knee before the weeping history professor.

 

“I . . . I don’t know what that word, _Kadan_ , means,” Dorian said in a voice that was hoarse and choked. Red smiled in the way that warmed his icy-stormy eyes, though that warmth was leavened with empathy.

 

“It means . . . tell me what’s happened, Dorian.” Those worried eyes searched Dorian’s face. “Tell me how I can make it better.”

 

“You _can’t_ make it better, _Amatus_ ,” Dorian said simply, shrugging helplessly as tension he hadn’t even noticed flowed out of him, nonetheless—the magic of Red’s touch. He drew in a shuddering, waterlogged breath. “Livia’s dead, Gereon’s lost his mind, and Felix . . . Felix is _dying alone_ , and I. . . .” on a shaking exhale, Dorian let out another laugh that could have been a sob for all the cheer in it. He closed his eyes for a minute, attempting to pull himself together at least a little bit. When he opened them, he met Red’s near-frantic gaze. “I . . . I need to go _home_ , Rupert. I _need_ _you_ to take me home.”

 

Understanding flared in Red’s canny eyes and after a moment, he nodded solemnly. “Of course, Dorian. Whatever you need. Whatever you _want_ ,” he said softly, taking his lover’s clammy hands and squeezing them. “I can have us on a flight before sunset.”

 

Dorian nodded, too, then winced as his foggy, grief-struck mind cleared enough to let him realize something rather important. Groaning, he leaned his head back against the chair’s head-rest, for once not giving a toss what it did to his hair. “I . . . I realize this is asking a lot of you, and we’ve only been . . . pursuing our . . . _us_ . . . for less than four months. We haven’t even spoken of what we want from each other, or if there’s _more_ to what we already _have_ than just sexual chemistry and convenient companionship, yet here I am, asking you to come with me to bloody _Tevinter._ Not for a fun little jaunt, but because life’s gone _absolutely pear-shaped_. And—”

 

“Dorian,” Red interrupted in that soft, solemn voice. His gaze was intent on Dorian’s, wide and intense.

 

“Yes?”

 

“My heart,” Red whispered. Dorian frowned in confusion.

 

“What about it?”

 

Quirking a fleeting smile, Red leaned closer to Dorian. “That’s what the word _Kadan_ means, in Qunlat. It means _my heart_. It’s an endearment. No,” Red immediately corrected himself. “It’s _the_ endearment. My grandfather used to say, of my grandmother, that when they were courting, she used to tell him that she loved him several times a day—sometimes once an hour during the times they were together. But it wasn’t until she slipped and for the first time called him _Kadan_ in an idle moment, that he really believed and _knew_ in his soul that she truly loved him.”

 

Dorian’s mouth dropped open and Red turned pink under his pale-olive complexion, looking down at their clasped hands. His pronounced, auburn-haired brow furrowed deeply. “I know this is a . . . less than providential time to declare one’s undying adoration to one’s lover, but such declarations slipping out runs in the Adaar family, you see. So, _whatever_ you need or want— _whenever_ you need or want it—you have only to say the word and I will provide it or die trying. For you _are_ my _Kadan_ , and to you . . . _for_ you I would give anything. _Everything_. Even and especially my life.”

 

“No,” Dorian said quickly, sitting forward to lean his forehead against Red’s. Even kneeling, the librarian was still ridiculously tall. Almost as tall as Dorian, sitting in his silly, expensive chair. “ _Don’t_ say that, _Amatus_. I’ve lost and _am losing_ so much. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing _you_ , on top of that.”

 

Sighing again, Red nodded once, managing not to disrupt their contact, then angled his head for a sweet, chaste, lingering kiss. “I'm sorry,” he mumbled on Dorian’s lips, and: “You’ll _never_ lose me.”

 

Dorian moaned into the next kiss needily, freeing his hands to wrap his arms around Red’s neck. The larger man hummed into the kiss as it went from soft and sweet, to wild and wanton, at Dorian’s unsubtle urging—desperate and demanding.

 

It wasn’t long before Red was standing them both up, his giant hands settling on Dorian’s waist, then hips, then arse, pulling him close, closer, closest. Dorian made such a yearning, hungry sound while attempting to climb Red like a tree, the librarian finally broke their kiss to pant: “Dorian . . . this—we shouldn’t—”

 

“Why _not_? Is—” Dorian leaned around Red to look at the other side of the office. “Solas isn’t waiting outside the door, is he?”

 

“What? _No, Kadan_ , he’s not. He went home for the day, and asked me to offer his sincere condolences to you,” Red said, his brow furrowing again, into one long, fuzzy caterpillar of concern. “I mean . . . you’ve just received tragic news and you’re _hurting_. _Now_ isn’t the time to—”

 

“It’s the _optimal_ time,” Dorian replied sharply, his eyes narrowing as he stared up into Red’s. “And it’s not as if we haven’t fucked in this office before.”

 

Red cleared his throat. “You’re displacing grief and sadness and anger, Dorian—”

 

“ _I_ know that! You think I don’t _know_ _that_?” Dorian exclaimed hotly, shaking his head, then hanging it. “I’m sorry, Rupert, it’s just . . . maybe _that’s_ what I need, right now. Maybe I _need_ to displace the shitstorm of fucking _despair_ that’s trying to eat me alive. Maybe I . . . just . . . _please, Amatus_ . . . let me displace it. _Help me_ displace it.”

 

Red searched Dorian’s eyes with that intent intensity again before nodding once and crushing Dorian to him. He was half-hard and nevertheless _huge_ with it, poking against Dorian’s stomach.

 

“You have lube?”

 

Dorian snorted. “Of course. In my satchel.”

 

“Of course.” Red rolled his eyes fondly, wryly, then backed Dorian up against his desk while kissing him silly. By the time Dorian was allowed to surface from it, gasping and panting, Red was palming Dorian’s near-painful hard-on roughly. Those stormy eyes were hypnotic and compelling—sharp and possessive on Dorian’s flushed face.

 

(He really and truly resembled one of the barbaric, heathen, Qunari-kings of old, straight out of a story book—or immortalized by a crumbling statue or totem pole like the ones that littered Seheron).

 

“Please, Red . . . _hurry_ ,” Dorian babble-huffed and the smile Red bent on him was as patient as it was merciless. A lion’s roar of desire and need sounded throughout Dorian’s being, and he whimpered as the other man made a twirling gesture with the first two fingers of his right hand . . . a gesture that Dorian knew to mean: “Turn around, Professor, and a let me get a look at what is mine.”

 

Obedient as ever, Dorian was quick to follow the unspoken command, bracing his hands on the desk and arching his back like an attention-starved cat. After a few moments of palpable consideration, Red’s hands settled on his waist again and that huge, hot hardness was pressing against Dorian’s arse like a promise. “But perhaps we won’t need lube, after all,” Red drawled in his most languid tone, his accent losing its crisp, educated edge and sliding into a burr that had faint tinges of many different places . . . but was flavored with something quintessentially Seheronese.

 

His hand was tight and punishing, and large enough to palm Dorian’s leaking prick _and_ aching balls. Dorian spread his legs wider to give Red all the access he needed. The other man wasted no time in reclaiming what was, indeed, already _his_.

 

“Perhaps, I can think of another way to help prepare you for me,” Red mused in Dorian’s right ear, humid and warm, running the tip of his tongue along Dorian’s auricle before catching the lobe between careful teeth.

 

Dorian made a choked, helpless noise that turned into a wavering: “Yeeeeeessssss. . . .” and Red singlehandedly unzipped Dorian’s black skinny-jeans, then navigated his way past the underwear Dorian _never_ wore, anymore.

 

The hand that claimed his prick was huge, hot _Heaven_. Dorian nearly came, but for Red clamping down on him like a vise—or like the cock-cage Red had presented him with three weeks into their sex-heavy relationship—and rumbling: “ _No_ ,” in Dorian’s ear before nibbling it with more purpose than tenderness.

 

Groaning his frustration, Dorian finally nodded and kept himself in check while Red skinned the damn jeans down his thighs, all the way to his ankles. Then those big hands were kneading Dorian’s bare arse while whispering dirty praise and affectionate filth.

 

“. . . your arse is so perfect, it’s _unreal_ . . . so many things I want to _do_ to this arse, Dorian. So many things I _will_ do. But you know what I want most, right now?” When Dorian whimpered again and thrust hopefully into the hand keeping him from ending prematurely all over his keyboard and desk, Red chuckled, low and evil. “I want to spread you open, and taste you. Lick my way into your body. Fuck you with my tongue until you come, clenching down on me _hard_ because it’s so fucking _good_ ,” Red murmured in a voice gone hoarse and growling with his own desire and need. “Then I’m going to finger you till you’re hard again, and fuck you cross-eyed. _Unh_. Do you know how _good_ you feel around me, _Kadan_? How hot and tight and _glorious_ you are? And that each time I push my way into your body is an epiphany that never gets old with familiarity and repetition . . . only _better_?”

 

“ _Kaffas_ , Red, _please_. . . !” Dorian moaned, his body cycling right to the edge . . . before backing away when it wasn’t able to come, due to the very firm grip Red had on Dorian’s aching prick and balls.

 

Red licked Dorian’s ear lobe teasingly once more before letting go of Dorian and stepping back. Cool, unwelcome air rushed between their bodies. “Hold yourself open for me. And make me _believe_ you _want_ _it_.”

 

“Please!” Dorian almost sobbed, arching his back invitingly before he straightened and held himself open. He glanced over his shoulder, tears running down his face. Behind him, Red was watching with a hooded, half-lidded gaze that _did things_ to Dorian . . . made his body and soul ache, and his stomach and heart churn, and _yearn_ , respectively.

 

“ _So_ very pretty when you’re desperate for me,” Red said with absent awe, and Dorian flushed under the mild praise, tamping down a tell-tale tingle at the base of spine, cock, and balls that meant his body was close to coming.

 

Dorian’s own praise-kink, and the depths thereof, never failed to surprise him. Neither did Red’s _voyeuristic_ -kink and fascination with watching Dorian masturbate.

 

The oh-so-proper librarian wanted a show? Well. Never let it be said that _Dorian Altus Pavus_ couldn’t put on a show with the _best_ of them.

 

Licking his lips and smirking, Dorian spread himself as wide as he could to give Red a comprehensive view as he teased and circled his entrance with surprisingly steady fingers, pressing against the guardian muscle and moaning extravagantly as he did so.

 

“I want you in me _any_ way I can get you. Tongue, fingers, prick, hand. I’ll take _whatever_ you give me, _Amatus_ ,” he sighed, the tips of his fingers brushing his twitching, waiting hole gingerly, as he snorted and warned his lover: “Just knowing you’re watching me finger myself is making it difficult not to come, you know.”

 

“You come when _I_ say you can come, Dorian,” Red chided, and Dorian huffed a tiny giggle through his nose.

 

“ _Not_ helping, Rupert. . . .” he gritted out, squinching his eyes shut. Red chuckled, finally taking pity on his lover and approaching Dorian again. When Dorian could feel the heat of Red’s big, solid body behind his, he gave up on artifice and settled for barebones honesty. “I _need_ you inside me, Red. Need to feel _whole_ . . . at least for a little while. Need to be completed a-and . . . cherished.”

 

“You _are_ _cherished_ , _Kadan_. _Always._ And loved,” Red insisted in a voice as firm and certain as stone. Then, without another word, the larger man dropped to his knees with a terse grunt. He brushed Dorian’s hands away and held him open, leaning into kiss both of Dorian’s cheeks, then the fluttering-twitching pucker between them, before licking it with a slow, lingering rasp. “ _I_ cherish you,” he breathed, hot and heavy. “I _love_ you.”

 

Dorian cried out, wavering and broken, as Red proceeded to slowly, painstakingly, open him with his tongue, interspersing licks and teases and nips, with hums and compliments and kisses.

 

For how long this went on, Dorian couldn’t judge—not even by the shift of light outside the window—for his eyes were shut tight as he focused on not coming before he was given permission.

 

But, at last, Red slurped and teased his way out of Dorian’s relaxed body, then stood slowly, trailing kisses up Dorian’s back as he pushed up Dorian’s black t-shirt. “I’m giving you a choice, my heart: I can let you come now, as I promised, or. . . .”

 

“Or?” Dorian managed to ask, even as he fought not to demand that Red finish him off with tongue or fingers or _whatever_ —foreign object insertion was certainly _not_ a taboo concept or practice in their sex-life—just so long as he could finally _come_.

 

“Or,” Red purred dangerously. “I keep you trembling on the edge for however long I see fit, fucking you and using your body for my own pleasure, until you can’t control yourself. And when you lose control, Dorian,” he said with dark promise that was as titillating as it was frustrating. “ _When_ you lose control, I will discipline you however. I. Choose to. _Whenever_ I choose to.”

 

Letting out a long, anticipatory groan, Dorian grabbed his prick before he could come just based on recalling previous instances of Red’s “discipline.”

 

“And I don’t mean something as prosaic as spankings or edging. Or, at least not _only_ that,” Red amended in a voice that was as suddenly matter-of-fact as if he was predicting the weather for the next few days.

 

“What—” Dorian began breathlessly, and Red grabbed his left arse-cheek and squeezed hard enough to bruise.

 

“When we get back to your flat to pack, I’m going to put that new leather cock-ring on you. You will wear it until I say otherwise,” he breathed in Dorian’s hair, nuzzling his crown tenderly. “And before we leave for the airport, I’m going to get you nice and slick, and we’re going to try out another . . . _present_ I got you . . . see if you like it.”

 

“Present?”

 

“Mm. It’s textured, thick, and it has five vibration speeds eight, different vibration patterns, and a remote control that I’ll be keeping _very_ close and making use of for the entire flight to Minrathous.”

 

Dorian’s eyes flew open and he flushed all over. “But—that’s a six-hour flight!”

 

“Mm,” Red agreed again, then with another kiss on Dorian’s crown, stepped back. “The choice is yours, _Kadan_.”

 

Unable to think beyond the lion’s roar-need and white noise-static of his hazy brain, anyway, Dorian didn’t hesitate for a single moment. “Fuck me, Rupert. Till I lose control. Till I come screaming so loud, security shows up to investigate.”

 

Red leaned down to nip Dorian’s nape, and his breath, though warm and steady, shook ever so slightly.

 

“As ever, if you wish me to stop, say _katoh_ , and I will. No questions asked, no consequences had.” Red nosed his way along Dorian’s neck. “ _Katoh_ , and we end the game for as long as you need to.”

 

Dorian turned his head toward Red’s and got his cheek nuzzled as a reward.

 

“I will _never_ say _katoh_ , _Amatus_. I would let you do _anything_ to me,” he admitted quietly.

 

“So far,” Red added.

 

“ _Anything_ ,” Dorian reiterated. A deep shudder shook Red and he made a soft, wondering sound that struck an answering chord in Dorian’s soul.

 

“Take it off,” Red ordered huskily, plucking at Dorian’s t-shirt. “All of it.”

 

Dorian wasted no time shucking the shirt and kicking off his sneakers and jeans. And, belatedly, his socks, too.

 

Red, meanwhile was rummaging in Dorian’s satchel, from the sound. He found the lube quickly, and wasted no time shoving down his own loose jeans and boxers. There was a soft jingle as his belt buckle hit the floor.

 

Dorian glanced behind him and watched as Red efficiently slathered lube on his massive, purple-headed prick. Red was thorough, watching Dorian watch him for a couple of minutes before coating his first two fingers in more of the slippery stuff.

 

“Hold yourself open,” he said again, his voice tight with iron-rigid control. Dorian did as he was bidden, facing the window again and closing his eyes. The last thing he wanted to see while Red took him was the stupid green-patch, with its play of light and shadow.

 

A few seconds later he was gasping as Red’s fingers brushed him tortuously-light, before pressing against the slightly swollen pucker of his relaxed entrance. Then, without more preamble, Red was pushing his index finger slowly, carefully into Dorian’s body, drawing a low, long groan from his lover that was equal parts pleasure and pain.

 

(Red had, from the beginning, had an instinct for what Dorian liked, and what he could _take_ —seemed to teach Dorian things about himself and what he craved which Dorian, experienced though he was, would never have otherwise guessed about himself.

 

That he liked a wide margin of pain with his pleasure was simply _one_ of those things.)

 

By the time Red added his middle finger to the mix, Dorian was grunting and fucking himself back onto Red’s thick fingers, angling for prostate stimulation Red was purposely denying him. Until, suddenly, he _wasn’t_ , anymore. With no warning, Red went from careful, steady, preparatory thrusts and scissoring, to driving his fingers into Dorian’s body hard and fast, finding his prostate early and often. Soon, Dorian was chanting Red’s name—both of them—and seeking friction for his neglected prick even as he impaled himself on those merciless fingers.

 

Red leaned close again, his fingers pressing in deeper and harder, but not withdrawing to repeat the process even when Dorian squirmed and keened for more.

 

“Three fingers, or my prick?” Red rumbled in Dorian’s ear. The history professor shuddered eagerly.

 

“You even have to _ask_?”

 

“I don’t wish to harm you, my heart.”

 

“ _I_ don’t want you to harm me, either,” Dorian agreed breathlessly. “But I most _definitely_ want you to _hurt_ me. I want. . . .” making a frustrated noise at for once not having the _exact_ words he needed, Dorian swore. “I want you to make me hurt the way you know I _love_ to hurt, instead of the way I’m hurting, _right now_. I want . . . I want to feel you at the very core of me, body and soul, instead of this awful, spiraling sense of loss. I want to you in me _so deep and so far_ , I can’t even think of anything but your prick. I want—”

 

“Hush, Dorian,” Red whispered, one big hand clamping down on Dorian’s left hip while the other held Dorian open. Shortly, Dorian felt the slick, bulbous head of Red’s prick press against him, seemingly too big to fit past even that initial ring of muscle, let alone any farther.

 

But, somehow, it did.

 

As ever, the first shallow thrust _in_ made them both gasp and groan. Dorian forced his body to relax with an efficacy born of frequent practice. Red, as always, gave him time to do so before thrusting slowly, steadily, implacably _deeper_.

 

“Maker, but you feel so _good_ . . . fill me up so _perfectly_ , _Amatus_ ,” Dorian sighed happily, as dull, crampy pain spread through his guts, hot and radiating outward. But even before Red was as deep as he could go—in this position—that dull pain had begun to turn into a cascading, escalating, _agonizing_ pleasure that grew sharper and sweeter with every throb and twitch of the huge cock skewering him.

 

When Red pulled out, Dorian could have wept at the loss and the way his muscles ached, but for the fact that Red immediately drove back in, slow and relentless, but not as slow as the first time.

 

Lather, rinse, and repeat, until Red had worked up a powerful, accelerating rhythm as perfect as it was punishing, his hands clamped down on Dorian’s hips, his groin pushed against Dorian’s arse. His heavy head rested on Dorian’s shoulder as he panted and swore, and pulled Dorian against him to meet each thrust. His frizzy, coarse auburn hair tickled Dorian’s cheek and neck.

 

“Are you ready?” he asked, his hips moving like well-oiled machines. Like _pistons_. But even so, with only a fraction of their full power. Dorian took a shaking breath and nodded.

 

“For you, Rupert? Always.”

 

Red grunted and, after a brief pause, switched up his angle and fucked Dorian twice as fast, and _three times_ as hard.

 

“ _Kaffas!_ ” Dorian called out again, as Red truly _went for it:_ not only put his back into the proceedings, but also deigned to hit Dorian’s prostate on damned-near every thrust.

 

“My Dorian,” the younger man gasped in a desperate, cracking voice. “My _Kadan_. . . .”

 

“Please . . . Rupert, _please_. . . .”

 

Without further ado, Red’s right hand slid around from Dorian’s hip to his prick, engulfing the other man in a warm, slippery, tight grip.

 

Dorian’s body was almost instantly at the edge again, hanging on by its fingernails, but unable to let go. He was so hard it _hurt_ —had crossed the line of pleasure, to oversensitivity and agony. And still, Rupert stroked him with brutal, ruthless talent.

 

“ _Dooooon’t_ —” Dorian was keening helplessly, his mind all but gone—though not _so_ gone that the word _katoh_ even came _close_ to his bitten, swollen lips. “ _Rupert_ — _it’s too much_ —”

 

“Then . . . _let go_ , _Kadan,_ and _come for me. Right now_.”

 

With a choked-off cry, breathless and garbled, Dorian’s body bore down on Red’s prick, causing the other man to groan, rumbling and raw and rising in volume, until Dorian exploded, his every nerve-ending awash in fire and lightning. He shook and shivered and sobbed, collapsing in the iron arms that’d wrapped around him and were doing more to hold him up than his own enervated legs.

 

Dorian came until it felt as if he was _beyond_ coming. Came until he shot soul and lifeforce, when his balls had emptied themselves beyond all other usefulness. It was ecstasy so pure and shining, that for several moments, his heart stopped. And upon realizing it had, he wanted nothing more than to quietly slip away into _true_ death . . . for he could not imagine a moment more blissful and utterly satisfying than _this one_. . . .

 

Then, his heart went on with one sluggish, sullen beat, and the desire for death was forgotten, never to be remembered in the afterglow. All was gentle, soft white light that had never harmed anyone, and never would. And Dorian drifted in that light, his body too inundated with that sharp sweetness that burned and tingled and made him quake, even as he slumped forward. Even as Red pushed him against the desk, holding him both up and down as he continued to fuck Dorian with power and speed, if no longer with finesse and rhythm. Dorian’s limp, relaxed body took each thrust that filled it and each withdrawal that emptied it without resistance, completely open and submissive to the demands Red placed upon him . . . namely _complete acquiescence and surrender_.

 

Until, finally, Red stilled.

 

He thrust once . . . twice . . . _thrice_ more, so hard, Dorian grunted as he impacted the edge of the desk.

 

Then Red was coming, too, with a soft, revelatory: “Dorian—!”

 

The last thing Dorian knew for some time afterwards was Red’s body pressed to his and _still_ fucking his. And the fever-hot rush of Red’s thick, copious release filling him . . . only to drip out of him and run down his trembling, tired thighs when Red—only half-hard, at last—slid out of him with a pained, wrecked _fuck!_ then a wondering, reverent _Kadan_. . . .

 

Dorian sighed, sated and dazed, as the white light dimmed to velvety, unknowing darkness, All was sweet, simple _feeling:_ happiness, rightness, belonging . . . and a certainty that those strong, protective— _possessive_ —arms would continue to hold him up. _Forever_ , if necessary.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Come see me on [Tumblr](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com)!


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